


À la perte de mon pays

by cuneifire (orphan_account)



Series: Author's Favourites [16]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 20th Century, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate History, British Empire, Cold War, Franco-British Union, French Empire, Historical Hetalia, Imperialism, In which I drag France and England kicking and screaming into a marriage, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Rating May Change, Sort Of, The European Union, a lot of politics, end of WW2, for a while, i really hope you like politics as much as i do, it goes about as well as you'd expect, then everything goes off the rails, with unforeseen political consequences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: The Second World War is over. Europe is about to face an entirely different playing field- the rising power of the USA and USSR, the end of an era, and having to put back together the broken pieces of a continent ravaged by war.It's a hard road to recovery. Blood will be shed, new alliances forged and old ones broken. And in this ever changing political landscape, England and France find themselves thinking of a move that hadn’t even crossed their minds since the late 12th century.History might go just a bit off course.





	1. Dans tous mots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England overhears an unfortunate proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title translates to 'In all words'.

May 9th, 1945

London, England.

*

England sighs as he looks out the window, streets glittering with the celebration of his people at the war’s end. It’s been a day, and they’re still celebrating.

Not that he blames them. Even he can almost muster up a smile at the thought that the absolute _hell_ of the last few years is finally, finally finished. He might even be out there with them, if he weren’t convinced that this was nowhere near the end of it.

There is so much work to do, he thinks as he stares down at his financial reports. Too much fucking work, after six years of war.

But work that needs to be done regardless.

_One hundred and forty-five-million-pound loan due to America, nine hundred and thirty million more in a further line of credit…_

He resists the very strong urge to repeatedly slam his head into the desk. _God, it’s the fucking South Sea Company all over again. We’re going to be paying this off in the next century._

He shakes his head, trying to think of solutions and coming up blank.

 _Fuck,_ he swears under his breath, before forcing back his composure, twisting his hands in the coarse fabric of his trousers.

Oh well. He supposes he will simply have to continue on, as he always does.

He sighs quietly as he leans down to sift through more paperwork, trying to ignore how incredibly wrong the pang in his chest feels, the pain still ricocheting pain from bullet wounds and stirs from near starvation just a few years past. They were still on rations, damn it all.

The papers flutter in the wind from the still open window. He slams down on them, vague pain sparking up his wrist as he stands up to close the bloody window to the wind which should not be giving him chills but is regardless.

Not for the first time, he resists the urge to sigh.

He’s slamming the cracked glass window shut when he hears it, over the general chaos of celebration and painfully fracturing glass. Footsteps, hard boots on wood.

Footfalls that are distinctively not his.

He freezes, hands going still on the chipped paint windowsill. He knows most of his officials are likely out, still celebrating finally winning this stupid hell fuck of an excuse for a war. He’s pretty sure even Churchill took the day off, dammit, and the whole of the War Cabinet alongside with him. They’re probably all pissed beyond belief in celebration as to finally defeating that damned kraut. He was likely the only one even _here,_ incapable of tearing himself away from all the _absolutely fascinating_ endeavour that was filing paperwork. And he was fine with that. His people deserved it. It was just that the world didn’t stop for anything, and there were still things- _so many things-_ that had to be taken care of.

He stares out the window, eyes glazed over with fatigue. For all the celebration, he couldn’t bring himself to stop thinking of the consequences. Because there were always, _always_ consequences, and from what he’s seen these are likely to be even worse than those of the Great War. God knows that was hard enough as it was.

God knows what havoc the aftermath of all this is going to wreak upon the world.

He straightens his spine and immediately steps away from the window, barely missing pieces of broken glass falling to the ground from the cracked glass. His gaze narrows. Instinctively, he slams his hand against the holster at his hip. His Enfield is beaten and dented from years of constant use.

In the periphery of his hearing there’s whispers.

_Why are they here?_

Fingers steady on his pistol, he steps furthermore, ignoring the aches in his bones as he reaches the door to his study. He presses his ear to the wall and cups a hand to it, gnawing at his lip.

“ _On va dans cette chambre, non?”_ He hears from the other side of the wall, and immediately jolts, expression dropping to one of confusion.

What would a Frenchman be doing in London on a day like this?

“Yes, yes, Sir, we’re in the room on the left- keep it down, The United Kingdom of England, Scotland, Wales, and-” The man pauses over the last word, as does England himself, “-Northern Ireland is in that one. And I doubt he will enjoy hearing this after so much time engaged in warfare, so we must keep ahead. And silent.”

England stares blankly, jaw ajar.

“That room?” Come a heavy French accented voice, one England swears on his life he recognizes but can’t quite seem to place.

He leans closer, swearing up and down about the stupid scars that still crisscross his back and make his chest constrict with lost breath when he moves too quickly. Gritting his teeth, he steps forwards anyways, moves his hand so his fingers just ghost over the doorknob of the threshold.

“Yes, that one.” The speaking-English-like-a-civilized-person says to the Frenchman, their footsteps already fading with distance down the hall.

England acts quickly, wasting no time opening the door before he steps out, shifting his boot on the floor to avoid the creaking parts of it. He leaves behind all his damned paperwork as he steps out into the hallway, making sure the men were far enough ahead that they didn’t spot his entrance.

He exhales a small sigh when they turn right to their meeting room, not sparing him so much as a glance.

Pacing slowly through the halls which he knows like clockwork, he makes his way to the room which the men had stepped into. He stills outside of the old wooden door, dim light filtering through the crack and casting over his shoes. He tilts his head to better hear the on goings of the room.

“ _Alors, qu’est-ce que tu proposes ?”_

 _“Je propose que-_ ” England’s French is rusty, (it really hasn’t been good since the twelfth century, if he was being completely honest), but he grasps that there is something of a preposition his officials are making. With French officials. One of whom he's certain he knows. _Fuck, who_ is _that?_

He leans closer, sighing with relief when the man switches back to English, although the men he’s identified as French continue on in that damned language of theirs. _Fucking frogs_ reiterates in his mind, a well-worn mantra as he shifts and presses his shoulder further against the stone cold wall adjacent to the door and does his best to go unnoticed.

“I propose that-“ One of his men starts off, accent that clearly distinguishes him from the French officers in the room. England hears the familiar sound of paper shuffling.

“-Should the economic depression within France and the United Kingdom of England, Scotland and Northern Ireland continue, and the alleviation of the recent war not end such depression, it would be highly to the benefit of both nations to consider a union.”

You could hear a pin drop.

Chaos erupts in the room, shouts and abrupt stops and screeching chair assaulting his already worn out mind like a visceral punch. Apparently, they've completely forgotten their policy of secretiveness, caught up in outrage. That’s his politicians for you. Couldn’t keep their mouths shut on a spy operative.

Not that he can really blame them though, with a proposal as ridiculous as _that._

“What on earth would that do?-“

“Do you know how much protest we would face?-“

“We cannot-“

“ _Je préférai que la France sera une province des Allemands qu'un dominion des Britanniques !”_ He hears an unfamiliar voice shout, and seethes at the words, hand poised just behind the wooden door. The words are all too fucking familiar-

But then he thinks about what they were discussing previously, and his stomach churns. He almost agrees with the Frenchman, actually, which only serves to piss him off further. God knows how well this'd gone over last time.

They are thinking of merging- of merging him and _France._ France of all fucking people. A union. Him and France. In a _union._

The war had _definitively_ done a number on his politicians’ mental states.

His hand behind the door freezes as he leans closer, listening intently to the men argue back and forth on the benefits, restraining himself from any radical actions like shouting, punching the door or throwing them all out the window to the concrete streets below and watching the blood splatter everywhere.

 _“_ The union would allow both countries to rehabilitate faster-“ _Rehabilitate? What am I, an opium addict?_

“- _Mais ce detuira l’independence de notre pays!_ We didn’t fight that war for the fun of it!” Fucking French. Fucking politicians. Fucking _France._

France.

He wonders if he's there.

His hand freezes over the doorknob. His heartbeat kicks up, palms going damp. The politician’s words turn to faint buzzing white noise in the back of his mind.

_If they didn’t tell me about this, there’s no way they told France. Right?_

Right.

_There’s no way this would go through; it’s absolutely ridiculous. Me? And France? Fucking hell, are they trying to set Europe ablaze for the fifth fucking time this century?_

He shakes his head, drowning out the voices seeping into his mind from the corridor. It’s probably just some low level preposition; no need to worry.

_But what if-_

He shoves all thoughts aside, to a nice little corner of his mind he likes to call ‘Nightmare fuel’. Biting down hard on his lip, he shakes his head and straightens his shoulders, turns resolutely on his heel. He has an economy to repair, and an empire to rebuild. No time to concern himself with silly matters like this.

_But France-_

No.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes
> 
> -May 8th, 1945 was victory in Europe day, following the unconditional surrender of Germany.
> 
> -Britain’s last WW2 debt, was, in fact paid off in 2006, with the amounts England names equating to a five hundred and eighty-six million us dollar loan from America and a further now near three point seven-billion-dollar line of credit. By the end of WW2, Britain’s debt was about twenty-one billion pounds, most of it being owed to overseas creditors, especially in the US.
> 
> -Also mentioned is the South Sea Company and its subsequent collapse and bubble, which was created out of need to get rid of debt Britain held in the early 1700s, due to being at war with basically everyone in Europe. And they’re still paying off _that_ debt.
> 
> Translations
> 
>  _On va dans cette chambre, non ?_ \- We’re going into that room, right?  
>  _Alors, qu’est-ce que tu proposes?_ \- So what do you propose ?  
>  _Je propose que_ \- I propose that-  
>  _Je préférai que la France sera une province des Allemands qu'un dominion des Britanniques !_ \- ‘I would prefer that France be a German province rather than a British dominion!’ –This phrase was representative of the French sentiment towards the Franco-British Union proposed in 1940. Charles de Gaulle and then president Paul Raynaud wanted to enter a (likely temporary) Union with the United Kingdom, but most of the cabinet disagreed, and the proposal was rejected. More on that later.  
>  _Mais ce detuira l’independence de notre pays!_ \- But it would destroy the independence of our country!


	2. Discussion, falsify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders when looking over his back constantly became tiring, when having no one to trust was no longer exciting but exhausting.

May 8th, 1945

Sétif, French Algeria.

.

France still freezes when he comes across the corpses.

There’s four of them, on this corner of the street. Two men, a woman, and a child- maybe ten years old. Pale skin gleaming with sweat in the desert heat. The boy’s eyes are still open, icy blue and dead as can be.

It doesn’t matter he’s seen thousands of the murdered over his lifetime, nor that this is the tenth today. Because when he comes across a dead citizen something in him always fails, shifts apart and pulls itself to pieces.

It’s the end of the war. He should be in Paris. His citizens should be alive, celebrating. They should be safe, like he’s fought for the last five years, instead of dead on the ground, bullets in their temples, misfires to the neck and shoulder.

Twenty-three people. That was how many of his citizens had died, today, the last day of the war. In a colony, no less. Not at Germany's hand, but rebels. Of all things, of all places. 

It's sweltering, making his gun so hot it burns his hands unless he ventures into the rare bit of shade, almost nonexistent in the plain yellow fields mottled with green. He keeps walking anyways.

The main street is still a chorus of screeching women and bloody corpses. He spots a detached arm, stray tendons dried up under the sun in a pool of blood.

He straightens his tie, undoes a single button. Pulls his hat down but keeps his gaze up, eyes wide. No one has so much as looked at him yet, but if these last years have taught him anything it’s vigilance. But the crowd pays him no mind, rapt in its violence. He thanks God that he’s not in military uniform, that the base had been so empty no one had noticed him shrugging it off and leaving, heading out to the celebration just to see his people, not command them, for once.

All he was meant to do was keep them safe no matter the cost, ensure their victory without hesitation. Just today, he’d thought he could put that aside, just for a second. Apparently all that had been was a proficient self-deception. He was much too talented in falsifying for his own good.

He kicks a rock and cocks his gun-

The burning sensation hits his chest first, and the whole of the world’s sounds go damp with a sharp ringing in his right ear. Everything is suddenly stuck in corn syrup, slow motion, as he turns to find a dark-skinned man holding a smoking handgun and wearing a grin, gnarled and bloody like the Algerian crescent itself, sideways and coated in blood. His smile rings of revenge: the type one wears when they have been occupied, beaten, broken down and forced to get back up, when the only thing they can look forwards to is finally shooting the bastard who wronged them. France knows because he sees it when he looks in the mirror. 

And this man, this rebel, was a damned good shot. France should be dead. If he could die, which at this point he’s no longer sure of. 

And he has blood on his hands. Sprayed up his fingertips to his shoulders. France would chance at where it’s from.

He doesn’t feel any pain as he reaches for his gun, total numbness where protest and humanity might have once resided. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t think, because why should he. Why would these _Amis du Manifeste et de la Liberté,_ these nationalists, thorns in his side, deserve anything more than a bullet to the head, dead children and to rot in the desert. 

In these past few years, he’s gotten much worse; he's been, bombed, blackmailed, tortured, forced to interact with England, and on one notable occasion almost gassed. A measly bullet couldn’t kill him if he wanted it to.

His gun gleams black in the unrelenting sun. The man’s eyes go wide as he fires off another two shots; another to the heart and one to the shoulder, a disjointed panic of a miss. France barely feels their impact. He calmly checks his gun, barely noticing the man trying to turn tail and run as he aims, tilts his head with one eye closed and fires. Again. And again. And again. And again and again and again until his aim has switched from that singular man to the cowering masses, until those dark-skinned savages are wide-eyed and taken aback, until his gun runs out of bullets. Even his citizens- the ones he’d fight for, die for- they look afraid, too.

France had seen many a madman during the war. He knows what one looks like. He’s not one. Because madmen are soldiers that jump into fights without knowing what they’re getting into, without properly assessing the situation.

France knows what he’s gotten himself into.

He feels the back of his neck prickle, and blinks as a knife lodges its way between his ribs. He turns to see a man with a smug expression that drops as soon as France smiles. He pulls the knife out of his chest and instead stabs it into the man’s shoulder. He leaves him to bleed, pivoting a wide arc around the crowd and walking fast, hand still on his gun despite its lack of bullets. Bluffing has won him more than one war, no matter the dead giveaway of blood.

No one questions him, not when he cuts his eyes to them authoritatively, tapping his gun and wishing he had worn that military uniform instead of spending so much time paranoid and afraid, cowering in corners and backwater farmer housings, praying no one would find him in the pathetic condition he’d been forced into.

He arrives at the base with only one more stab wound. He counts that as a victory, looking down upon himself with disgust. Once upon a time France had been the capital of fashion, the icon himself. Nowadays a plain white t-shirt and baggy trousers is apparently meant to suffice. He scoffs, swallowing down regret.

The lobby stains with blood as he evenly cleans his gunshot and stab wounds, wrapping them with slippery hands. The water’s short and he doesn’t have any spare clothes, so he makes do with gauze, leaning against the wall, staring at the blood dripping down his arms and wishing he could fetch more supplies. Transporting is near impossible these days, at least to his colonies. It used to be easy; seamless slipping between locations that were unequivocally his. Now it’s like travelling through static. And to think, he still has the whole of his nation to pull up by the bootstraps. 

France thinks he could really use a glass of wine. And then feels like England, because it isn’t even noon.

He sighs, hot air not improving his condition in the slightest. It was supposed to be over, he keeps thinking. He doesn’t want this anymore, he keeps thinking. Always looking over his back is wearing him thin.

He stands up and almost falls over, contemplating just collapsing on the floor and refusing to get up. Staring at the tiles, he slides a hand onto the table and pushes up, forcing himself back to his feet with a grimace.

The telephone’s ringing. He winces at the way his arm trembles when he picks it up.

“Bonnefoy,” He says as introduction. The man on the other end of the line- he has no clue who it could be- clears his throat. “Ah, Fra- Francis. Precisely who we were looking for. There’s been a prop-” His hearing buzzes out, clears to white noise. A proposal? For wh- “Ah, nevermind you don’t need to- not important. We need you down in the Levant.”

“What proposal.” France deadpans, not really feeling like dragging the words out but doing so anyways. If there’s anything going on, he has to know.

The man on the other ends pauses. “It’s - nothing- I’m not authorized to tell you.”

“Pray tell, then I’ll ask De Gaulle as soon as I come back.” He makes a mental note, listing it to his one and million other things to organize. The man on the other end of the line hesitates. “Uh...about that. We need you in the Levant.”

“The Levant.” France says, raising an eyebrow, looking longingly at the chair and wondering how uncomfortable a sleeping location it would be.

“Yes.”

“For what, precisely?”

There’s a pause.

“...There’s been another revolt.”

“Where?”

“...Damascus, Sir.”

France slams the speaker onto its hook and stares at the wall. Feeling his shoulders drop as he stands, he closes his eyes and pictures the Levant, its arid desert atmosphere, the flowering gardens they’d plant in the middle. He pictures Damascus, its high arched Arab architecture and beautiful marblework. He pictures the parliament building, a crook of wine popped, green eyes smiling at him like there’s not a care in the world even though they’d both been shot to all hell-

He’s there within a split second, no delays nor static in sight.

He cocks his head at that, lips twisting downwards in confusion. The last time he’d transported to the Levant, it’d been like trying to drive a tank in the Great War.

He shrugs it off with a shiver, stepping from the plains out into the complete desert of the Levant.

So. Damascus. He wonders who he has to kill now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes
> 
> -The Levant is the historical term for the general area of modern day countries such as Lebanon, Syria, Israel, and Jordan. For a fair while, these countries were under French or English control. 
> 
> -Damascus is the modern day capital of Syria. It was under French control from 1920 until 1946. 
> 
> -This takes place during the Sétif massacre. The massacre occurred on the 8th of May when, during a V-E celebration (where the French occupiers of Algeria forbade any usage of Algerian nationalist symbols) Algerian Nationalist Bouzid Saâl was shot by the French authorities. This caused chaos in the crowd, resulting in some protesters attacking the French. The celebration ended with 28 dead and 48 hurt Europeans, alongside 20-40 dead and 40-80 hurt Algerians. This dominoed into the larger Sétif massacre which took place until the 22nd of May, ending with 102 dead Europeans and anywhere from 1, 000 (French government estimate) to 45, 000 (Radio Cairo estimate) dead Algerians, although modern historians place the number at anywhere from 6,000- 20, 000. 
> 
> - _Les Amis du Manifeste et de la Liberté_ were an Algerian nationalist group that formed during 1944 by Ferhat Abbas, arguing for the end of colonisation in the region and including a draft for a constitution. The group was part of many rallies against and attacks on the French, who were still in Algeria at the time. 
> 
> A/N: I like to headcanon that nations can transport through their own land with ease, depending on how connected the people are with their national identity. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I really, really dislike saying this, but considering the general atmosphere on the internet I figure I may as well. From this chapter on, there’s going to be a fair amount of discussion of imperialism, as colonial policy was an incredibly important part of both French and English politics right up until the 1970s. I hope to make this an interesting and nuanced part of the story, and my intention is not to offend, but if this chapter does than I recommend you turn back. I refuse to sugarcoat or simplify history because it may be easier, and I hope that comes through as a reasonable sentiment, considering I am doing my best to make this fic at least somewhat historically accurate while also giving the characters humanity and hopefully not pointlessly preaching my personal politics.
> 
> As always, feedback of any sort is appreciated, and if anyone feels the urge to discuss/debate this with me that is also welcome. Thanks for reading!


	3. Vérités moyennes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s ironic. All this time, he's finally supposed to fight France. But it doesn't feel right, not quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title translates to 'Half-truths'.
> 
> Me? Updating more than once every three months? It's more likely than you think.

May 31st,1945

London, England.

.

“England,” his boss says. England’s neck cracks as his gaze snaps up, immediately coming to attention. 

“Yes?” He says, voice taunt as his gaze flits over the map decorating the (former) war room, pins and lines drawn over the tables and walls, right down to the reinforced floors.

His boss puffs out a breath of smoke, eyes fixed on the map behind England. Dunkirk. England focuses his gaze on the scratched up table instead.

“We have a military operation you will be needed in.” His boss says.

England freezes, looks up. “What? Where-”

“It’s in the Levant.”

“Did they find another goddamn secret bunker-” _he’s going to wring Germany’s fucking neck straight off his shoulders-_

 _“-_ It’s France.” His boss says, and England’s eyes go wide.

 _Fucking frog,_ is his first thought, and then _but-_

“Why, exactly?”

His boss flicks the cigar, pointing it downwards and handing England a paper.

“The French,” he says briskly. “-Are attempting to quell resistance in Syria. They appear to be throwing their soldiers straight into war. On warships, indeed.”

England’s gaze snaps up. He curses, quietly.

“That violates the Atlantic Charter.” _No territorial gains were to be sought from the war, all people had the right to self-determination._

His boss nods. “Directly.”

England crumples the paper in his hands, only briefly relishing in the fact that he really can’t afford to waste it. No matter. He’ll reuse it.

He looks down and the crumpled mass in his hand, keeping his gaze on it. It takes him a second to realise it already _has_ been written on. On both sides.

 _Script Radio Londres,_ it reads.

He wonders how that got here.

He clears his throat. “So,” he says quietly, over the smudged mess of printed ink in his hand. “What are we to do of it?”

He uncrumples the paper, reaming out the edges. The script is, of course, in French. Looking, he only catches a few sentences.

He glances away before he can make some miserable attempt at reading it.

“The French have acted as though this is war.” His boss says, as dead serious as he had been when it was Germany at the other end of their guns, and somehow that throws England off. “We shall return the sentiment.”

“We’re going to war.” There’s a dulled spike of annoyance where his anger, his fear, should be. In all honesty, fighting France didn't sound nearly exciting as it should have.

And wasn’t he supposed to be _marrying_ France? He supposed that was just a wayward conspiracy that no one as important as his boss would bother to take seriously. But still- _why?_ Why _marriage_ of all things?

Because if so, this was pre-marital domestic abuse, and after two world wars in less than half a century, he wasn’t feeling quite up to that.

“No. We’ll simply be…” Churchill pauses over the words. His boss has always been lengthy with his dictation, and he supposes that does not change even when there is no one to immortalize your words, just empty space and a figure that people tend to forget, or never remember in the first place.

“We will be assuring ourselves that the French are not exceptions to their promises.”

 _Because we can’t be,_ is what England hears. He knows his boss would’ve very much like to see some gains for all they’d lost in that war. He would agree.

“Have the Americans and Soviets agreed to aid?”

“They support our decision.”

“So no.” He says, cynical tone probably coming off as an insult, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

His boss pauses again. “England.” He says, sounding exhausted. Most of his people did, these days. “I am asking you to fight for this nation, your people, your values, again. I understand the war has been hard on you- all of us, truly, but we cannot allow the French to be the exception to this rule, to their promises.”

He felt like grumbling that it was a stupid rule anyways, but held himself back. This was what he had promised. And he...kept his promises. He did. It was a recent development.

He inhaled. Exhaled. Some sacrifices were necessary. His eyelids felt stuck shut. He wrenched them open anyways.

“So,” He said, meeting his boss’ gaze steadily. “When am I going?”

.

_"In order to avoid a collision between British and French forces, we request you immediately order French troops to cease fire and withdraw to their barracks…”_

England shoves the order into his jacket, tucking it into an inner pocket. Buttoning his jacket quickly, he can almost ignore the other side of the paper, the one filled foreign grammar and vocabulary he could only vaguely remember.

The sea spreads out in front of him endlessly, dark waves curling up with foam at the edges of the ship. He closes his eyes, taking in every dulled reflection and cloudy bit of humidity that gathers on the rail beneath his fingertips.

He can see memories in it. The sea is peculiar like that; unlike land, it conveys thoughts without specific locations.

As for what he sees, he just grips the handrail and waits for his knees to buckle and his forehead to touch cool metal.

He reminds himself that memories are memories, and just that. He can relive his former glory, or he can continue on and, perhaps, _survive._

It’s an obvious choice, but a difficult one.

.

June 1st, 1945.

Damascus, Mandatory Syria.

.

The people in Damascus welcome them. The sun is burning, reflecting off every bomb shattered building. The people are smiling through scars.

England hooks his legs over the edge of the tank, fixing them with a curious look. Apparently France had just been _that_ terrible.

He smiles weakly as a little girl waves at him. Some of his boys wave at the people. Most of them didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to blame them. No matter how much he blinks he can’t see clearly. His throat is stuffed with cotton. The sun’s heat is unbearable. Where is France.

Fuck, why was he thinking of France.

He lets his gaze wander over the crowd; dark-skinned people pressed over the thin sidewalks that lined the decimated city. They wear a myriad of expressions; yes, some are smiling, but others have a glassy look of confusion in their others, others still look as if teetering on rage, like the bombs were just the beginning.

It doesn't help that he has a headache.

Not to mention he still had the task of clearing the city of frogs, make sure they enacted no further damage, keep the Atlantic treaty from shattering to pieces like all the other peace treaties that came about since the turn of the last century. Along with keeping his boys from having to endure another war, his country from falling further into shambles, and maybe keeping France from any further stupidity, it was no wonder his head was throbbing.

He stares at the rubble on the ground, cleared away for his tanks to march through. They’ll have to make sure there’s no more of it, in the future.

.

He pulls himself up and out of the hatch to walk on the tank’s lower edge. He’s still trying to organize everything that needs to be done, and the cool metal is relieving after hours in the sun.

He sighs, leaning against the tank. His eyes fell shut. He wishes he could sleep more, but wars didn’t leave time for that. And with the way things were looking with France, it didn’t seem as if he’d be getting much shut-eye anytime soon.

 _France…_ Where on Earth _was_ that jerk? He had looked for him, earlier, when they were searching the streets for Frenchmen to bring back. There’d been plenty of French soldiers, being booed off or shouted at or maimed or murdered, but not a glimpse of France.

Which was odd. France of the recent had a rather large penchant for surrendering. And not to mention a flair for the dramatic. If anyone were to be noticed, it would undoubtedly be him.

He pushes back the whispers in his mind informing him that no, defeating Napoleon hadn't been an easy task, that it hadn't been him holding the full line in 1915, that even cornered and beaten France was formidable with even a dessert fork. 

Maybe France just had better things to do. Celebrate in Europe, for one. England was suddenly struck with an intense bout of jealousy.

He forces down the bitter curve of his smile and sinks down against the dirtied wheels of the tank.

He presses his hands flat against the tank and shoves himself off, running a hand through his hair and gnawing at his lip. His gun cuts a flat black line against his uniform. His hand fits naturally over the trigger.

He skims his nails against his gun, tilting his head up to the sky. The metal makes a faint screeching sound.

A few minutes prior, they’d gotten the order to scan the streets for any remaining French soldiers. Mop them up before the Syrians did the job for them, he supposed. He should really get going with that.

.

They were not understating when they said Damascus had been decimated. His soldiers patrolled through pitted walls and shell bombed buildings, picking through the civilians in search of whatever remained of the French regiments.

They’d found a few by now. He’d sent most of his boys back with the soldiers they’d already rounded up. They deserve the break; after six years of that fucking war, England’s beginning to wish _he_ could take a break.

But he can’t, so he storms through the city alone. His boots crack against rubble and concrete, the soles of his feet blisteringly raw, but he just grits his teeth and keeps going. He’ll get decent army equipment when he's dead, or when the country got out of recession; whichever came first.

He surveys the streets with ease, years upon years of practice stacked in his mind like cracked bricks, picking through the populace- the French, the rebels, the civilians- like they were colour coded. Most of the soldier appeared to have seen reason and returned (if at gunpoint) so as not to unnecessarily risk their lives. The dusk was slowly turning to night. Perhaps they realised different monsters came out then.

He was probably one of them, he thought, a chuckle wracking his chest in spite of it all. His laugh sounded like a bad radio signal, static and broken.

He blinks, refocusing. The stars were beginning to set in, long shadows casting over the city. It had claws, the dark. He wasn’t even sure there were any non-suicidal French soldiers left in the city. But England was still marching, through the streets, unalterable in his pace. Where he was going... that was less of a priority.

He’d been to Syria before. So many time he’d lost count. Really, just a few years ago…

Funny, the whole of BC seemed like measly months, but just a handful of years felt like all eternity coming back to haunt him.

_On their way back to the base, they’d stopped by the parliament. It hadn’t been decimated, per se, just… Not in particularly great shape. But considering London and most of France, ‘Not in particularly great shape’ was an absolutely fantastic condition to be in._

_France had been in one of his saner bouts, then. No Nazi rules, no pleas for Germany, no rampant preaching of the glory of fascism. In fact, he’d had this sort of tilted smile and glint in his eyes that made England almost ninety-nine percent sure it was Free France and not Vichy he was talking to._

_He'd had kept his hand on his gun, though. Just in case._

_Somehow, France had had a bottle of wine. England was never quite sure how he obtained it. But he’d corked it open, taken a sip, passed it to England, and England hadn’t had anywhere near enough resolve to question it._

_They’d sat there, on the steps of the Parliament, taking swigs of the wine over dust caked steps, France pretending to be elegant and England already having given up a long time ago._

_And France had smiled, not with his mouth but with his eyes, passing the bottle of wine to England and wiping his lips of wine with a handkerchief England was half convinced he’d stolen straight off England himself._

_“You know, Angleterre,” France had said, languidly peering over the city, desert architecture sprawled out in front of them like oceans afar._

_“I think this has been a rather nice day, do you not?”_

_England had dug his teeth into his lip so hard it’d bled and he’d clutched his gun hard enough to crack metal, trying to reign in his laughter. Earlier that day, they’d fought tooth and nail for the city. France had gotten shot, England twice. They were both still bleeding, and they had no replacements for their wasted clothing. England was pretty sure he’d gotten asthma from how much dust and sand he’d inhaled, and he was still woozy from the blood loss. France had bitched endlessly about England’s terrible fashion, enough to make England want to just give up, write him off as Vichy and strangle him._

_Rated as a normal day, it stocked up somewhere between ‘an absolute shitstorm’ and ‘worthy of enough alcohol to drown a horse’. But France was smiling, and not insulting him, somehow._

_So England smiled back._

_“Yes, I daresay it is.”_

_And they’d stayed there, red wine occasionally spilled on sun-bleached stairs like the sky bleeding out in front of them; peaceful for once in a blue moon._

_He supposed for a war day, it wasn’t that bad._

The memory sticks in his mind as he paces through the night, tensing his posture and glancing about jaw set. He flinches at a noise in the background, but it turns out to be just a rat, scuttling through the rubble, a piece of garbage crunched between its teeth.

He marches on. The shadows hide him easily as he slips through the streets, not a soul giving him a second look. He’s going… somewhere. He can't figure out precisely where.

Until he gets there, at least.

The parliament is a complete wreck, barely standing, piles of rubble stacked up everywhere. The door is ajar, its painted windows shattered, the steps smashed.

Among the ruins sits a man. Flashes of light yellow glinting off his hair, a cap pulled low over his eyes. Crossed legs. Hands twisted elegantly as if to hold the stem of a wine glass, although there was none.

England guaranteed his eyes would be blue.

“Fucking bastard,” he swears. The rubble is unsteady under his boots as he marches up, shoulders straight, trying and failing to keep his expression neutral.

France had yet to notice him. It wasn’t like he’s looking; his eyes are glazed over, gaze far off. His eyes are dark, navy or maybe black, England can’t tell.

His fingers itch for the trigger, but he keeps his hand over the gun. Steady.

The shadows let him go as he steps forwards into the dimmed light.

One step, two steps, three. The hot coloured rainbow of dusk splinters in the distance. France still isn’t looking at him.

He hastens his pace, reminding himself. _Just another soldier._ Just another idiot Frenchman, full of pride for a useless country that couldn't stay out of a mess if it were surrounded on all sides by a wall.

The stairs were much closer now, enough that he could see the full damage done, right down to the fractures of the door’s glass.

He steps up to the stairs.

“France” he murmurs, just low enough to miss.

The hand on the cap pauses, fingers stilling in their tapping pattern.

The cap flicks up, and England is met with a wry smile.

“Angleterre,” says the man with bright blue eyes and a thick accent. “Have you come to finally shoot me in the back?”

Curse France and his penchant for the overdramatic. England felt his chest shudder with a sigh. “No, France.” He exhales. “If just that would’ve put an end to you, I would’ve done it long ago.”

A small voice in the back of his head whispers that maybe he didn’t really want to _kill_ France anymore, per se. God help him, he was short enough on allies that _France_ was starting to look decent. So maybe he didn't want to murder him. More… horribly maim him, perhaps.

“But still you do it anyways. Perfidious as always.”

Alright, he lied. His fingers still itched for the trigger. He settles for digging his teeth into the inside of his cheek, tasting blood and fixing France with a glare.

“France, this is not _me_ betraying _you_ . This is _you_ breaking your own damned word and having to face the consequences, by matter of me.”

France sighs, leaning against the broken stone rail. “Consequences.” He says, as if that singular word can be blamed for all the world’s problems.

England snatches him by the wrist and hauls him forwards. “Yes,” he says. “You have to face them.”

France sighs, not giving into his grip but not resisting either. “It’s unfortunate, really.”

“A bit of aid would be nice.” He then comments, wincing in pain and putting a hand on the broken rail.

It somehow hadn't occurred to England that France would have scars too. But he did. Faint jagged lines crisscrossed down his exposed hands, and even though he was in uniform England knew there would be more, some old, some from the war. Some that England had given him.

And France is just sitting there, staring blankly, as though he expects nothing more of England than to be spat on and abandoned.

England should do that. It's what he usually does, given the chance.

France raises a brow, questioning. Levers up the hand trapped around England’s.

England snatches his wrist away. “Get up.” He snaps, eyeing the gun next to France. It’s hidden under his hand, barrel turned to the ground. “I can’t have you dying on me.”

England stands there in the sand, waiting. He’s used to gunshots by now.

But France isn’t using the gun for any amenable purpose. France isn’t spitting in his face. France isn’t telling him to fuck off or fix his teeth or kill himself or anything. France is simply sitting there, blowing smoke in his eyelashes. Which is annoying, certainly, but not France levels of annoying.

“So sweet of you, Angleterre.” France smiles bitterly and gets up.

It takes him a minute to register why this moment made him feel like gagging.

It is obtrusively, unalterably _wrong._

France is supposed to attempt to kill him, maim him, taunt him, throw every word and weapon at him with ease and not a second thought to their consequences. France is not supposed to give up after thirty seconds of a bland argument and barely a flick of a gunshot, France is meant to get up here and straight up attempt to murder him for daring to interfere in his ‘glorious empire’ and challenging his ‘droit donner par Dieu’ or something.

Maybe the war did more of a number on him than England thought.

England should offer his hand. He should help him up.

_“I would prefer to be a province of the Germans than a dominion of the British!”_

He could still recall a French diplomat saying that, as if it were yesterday. France definitively reflected the sentiment.

France didn’t need his fucking help.

“Get up.” He snaps, teeth clenched. “You’re fine.” He could take a lot of things from France, but weakness wasn’t one of them. He knew precisely how dangerous he could be. France could hurt him in a lot of ways, but deceit was no longer one of them.

France raises an eyebrow. Leaning on one hand, he pushes off the stairs and looks at England, smirking slightly.

“I don’t know what you’re being so fucking smug about.” England says, snarling. He doesn’t know why France is like this, he doesn’t understand France on an average day and this is far from average, he doesn’t _get_ why the fucker would so blatantly violate the Atlantic Charter, because if you’re going to do that than you may as well be _fucking discreet about it_ , and he doesn’t get why his boss sent him here, especially if he was supposed to be getting bloody fucking _married-_

France uncrosses his legs and blows smoke, still smoking that _fucking_ cigarette.

England punches him.

“You’re a fucking moron.” He spits out. Pain sears hot through his hand, raw and red. For a minute all he sees is red, everything covered in blood.

It fades, and he's left with France looking completely dumbstruck, jaw hanging open, touching the broken skin on his cheek almost absentmindedly. As if the mere thought of damaging his _beautiful_ face was an atrocity. It’s amusing enough that England smirks.

France repays him the favour by bursting into laughter.

“Angleterre-” he gasps, hand over the grip of his pistol. “Angleterre, I despise you so much.”

“The favour is returned.” England replies.

“Some days I think I should have killed you when I had the chance.” France says, casually.

Despite everything, those words still make England’s blood go cold.

“Yes, most likely.” He says instead of going paralysed, keeps his hands behind his back so France can’t see that they’re curled into fists, wipes the blood off his knuckles and stifles the burning in the back of his throat.

“And I you.” he says instead, because being around France is something akin to willingly jumping into a barrage of artillery.

There’s no reply.

England catches France by the wrist. “Come on.” He says, pulls his gun from its holster and points it to France’s head.

France smiles. England desperately wants to hurt him.

He aims his pistol for the leg, and barely hears the gunshot.

France winces, red blooming on his trousers, and grits his teeth, just catching his weight on the railway.

 _“Va te faire foutre,”_ he says, glaring. “Was that really necessary?”

“You brought warships here, France. _War ships._ I don't trust you-” _I never trusted you-_ “as far as I can throw you, and currently that's not very far.”

France is apparently as used to gun wounds as he is, because he stands up with only a grimace, and stumbles forwards.

His pathetic attempts at walking make England cringe, so he offers his arm. “You're making my head hurt.” he says. “I should shoot you, return your good graces.” France says, eyes glimmering with menace, and England has the sudden thought that France looks like an absolute force of nature when he's angry.

He shoves the startling thought aside briskly, shrugging. “Go ahead. But I'll have you know killing me counts as both a felony, treason, and Very Bad for International Relations.”

“Killing you would be much more a favour to society than a punishment,” France grumbles, eyeing England wearily. He throws an arm around England's shoulders. At England's cocked eyebrow, he raises a hand dramatically.

“I must, Angleterre, my poor body has suffered enough damage in this already costly endeavor of assuring the Arabs do not-”

“Save it,” England grumbles. “And if you say I have to carry you back to the base then you’re _crawling_ to Paris.”

France looks expectedly affronted, likely contemplating various ways of maiming him. England grins, all teeth.

“ _Baise d’un bâtard ingrat,_ ” he hears mumbled, and rolls his eyes. Whatever he’s saying, England’s sure the words are nothing short of pleasant. He just accepts it, some other complaint, one more muttered dagger whispered in a bitter language so fast that he could never quite catch on to it.

No need to, he supposed.

He picks up the pace, eyes set dead on the pitch black horizon.

France seemed to slowly grasp the fact that no, a bullet wound was not enough to kill him (how England wished it was), and disentangled himself off of England. Which had the disadvantage of slowing them down significantly, but it was less awkward by the thousands. And besides, it wasn't like he was expecting more than two hours of sleep tonight anyways.

It was fine. Everything was perfectly fine. Everything was completely, utterly, _fine._ It would all turn out, if he put enough effort into it-

“Shooting for the kneecaps is very rude, you know _._ ”

He shoves a hand into his pocket, pulling out thick wraps of gauze and pushing it into France's hand. “Here, now shut the fuck up-”

“Angleterre, you dropped your paper.” France’s voice cuts through his thoughts with all the clarity of a knife.

“My pape-” He’s halfway through the words by the time France takes out the paper and likely has the whole thing read, or at least all the cognates English and French have.

It’s pretty obvious from the look of disgust on his face which side he read. He cuts his eyes to England, eyes narrowed.

“It surprises me sometimes, how much of a coward you are. You would think that after a thousand years that would be impossible, but alas, Angleterre, you have a very large talent for such types of things.”

France digs his nails into England’s skin as he passes the note back and slits the paper so thin it was definitely intended to cut. England stays still.

“Taking orders from my gouvernment makes me a coward? You should look in the mirror occasionally, France. Or have you got amnesia of the last five years? May I remind you, it was _me_ who never gave up, never surrendered, and _you_ who capitulated without much more than a whimper to scamper to Germany’s side?”

France catches his glance, holds it with a smile so bitter England can almost taste it. “You would’ve done the same in my place, _perfide Albion_. Do you not place your people over everything else?”

The paper is still weighing heavy and crumpled in his hand when he shoves it back into his coat pocket. France didn’t see his wartime radio broadcast, didn’t see the other side. Thank God.

“Everything?” England asks lowly, eyes fixed on the horizon. It was maybe two in the morning. The base was ahead now, more than just a speck in the distance.

France looks just short of full-on gaping at him. “Of course.”

“Including…” _Marrying your most hated enemy?_ He shook his head.

“You’re talking nonsense. Should report you to the asylum alongside prison.”

France laughs, a nails-on-chalkboard type of noise. “If I belong in prison, then so do you. Trial us at Nuremberg, perhaps, alongside the only other Saxon more intolerable than yourself. ” He says, stumbles over a piece of ruined history. “ _Dieu,_ you wouldn’t happen to have wine on you right now? Or even that piss you English dare call beer?”

“Do I _look_ like I carry around a bottle of alcohol without me everywhere because I’m just _that_ incapable of dealing with my problems sans booze?”

“You know what, don’t answer that.” He says, grabs France by the cuff and distinctly doesn’t let his gaze drop to the flask at his hip.

“Actually, while you’re at it, don’t say anything else either.”

France glares, and promptly decides to recount just about every stupid thing England had ever done in the history of his lifetime.

“Ah yes, and the time you decided that simply _throwing_ men at Germany was the best way to win the war-”

“You did that too!”

“Yes, but unlike you, I had the intelligence to learn from my mistakes. Tell me again the purpose of Gallipoli?”

England gritted his teeth.

“Well then, if you’re such a military genius, then do tell me how you managed to lose a war to a loosely confederated mishmash of Germanic states when you were supposed to be the most powerful nation on the continent? 1871 is still in living memory, _Frankreich._ ”

France regarded him, affronted, as if to say _How_ dare _you_ without even using his voice.

“Ah yes, and tell me again how Castillion turned out?” he says instead of arguing.

“You fucking- if we’re going medieval there’s absolutely no way that _you’re_ coming out unscathed, you moron- Guy Fawkes day to you? 1688 was the best year of my life.”

“Ah yes, and you've been miserable ever since.”

“Oh _va te faire foutre aussi,-”_ England says, about to rip into France for the complete and utter disaster that was his participation in the Seven Years’ War, when he notices France staring.

“What is it?” He snaps.

France grins. “You spoke in my language.” He says, lips cracked and eyes mischievous. “I have never truly faded from your memory, have I? The Norman Invasion-”

How had he failed to notice the desert's insufferable heat? “The Norman Invasion was a bloody millennia ago, the only thing I remember was that you were a bloody piece of work-”

France laughs, genuine honest-to-God laughs, and England almost jumps out of his skin. “Angleterre, I have never met a nine year old who fought so viciously.” his eyes glimmer as they meet England's, still limping from England's gunshot but he's _smiling,_ England hasn't seen that in _decades._

France's eyes are bright as he says, “Never have I met someone so-”

“Uh, sir?” A rough voice jolts him to reality, and he finds himself standing at the steps of his base, where his tank was just a few hours ago. One of his boys is eyeing him, confused and tense, both hands on his gun.

England tears his gaze from France, snapping into proper posture. France follows suit.

“Yes?”

“The French soldiers are to be escorted to the barracks.” His eyes are on England’s gun, which by this point is only vaguely facing towards France. “At gunpoint, if necessary.”

“Oh.” England says. And then, more firmly, “Of course.”

He points the gun to France’s head, smile like plaster. “Off you go.”

France takes in the hostile stares he’s getting from England’s boys, mutters something unintelligibly French before being led off by England with his head held high.

One of his boys eyes him suspiciously when he returns, after France’s various curses and protests as he was led to where they’d be- ahem- _staying_ for the night, perhaps a while.

“He called you a betraying piece of perfidious crap, you know.” He says- England’s pretty sure his name is Gerald- yes, that’s it.

“No surprise,” he waves a hand. “You speak French?” The boy’s maybe eighteen. He wouldn’t remember a time where Englishmen learned French because they had to, or for the sole prestige of it. Not many people aside him remembered that. And one of them was currently locked up.

The boy shrugs. “‘Mom was from Aquitaine or something.” He says, obviously suspicious. “Do you know that guy?”

England sighs. “Too well,” he says, exhaling with a sigh and a grimace.

Gerald looks at him as though he's lost his head. “Why were you…”

England must be dreaming, considering how suspiciously one of his own soldiers is looking at him. He raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Gerald takes a hand off his gun, cocking his head.

“I… Nevermind”

England dismisses it easily and checks his watch.

...And it's already three in the morning. Fuck. He’s almost certainly got a meeting of some sort tomorrow- they have to decide how to deal with the current _situation,_ not to mention just about a million other things. He should likely sleep.

“Are you on watch?” He asks Gerald, eyes fixed on the sky.

Gerald nods. “Yeah.” He says, hands once again over the gun. He’s young- probably just got in at the tail end of the war, not used to this.

“Do you want me to take it?” England says. He can’t sleep anyways. He knows all he’ll do is stare at the ceiling and toss over his problems- it’s all he’s done for the last seven years, anyways.

Gerald seems surprised, somehow even more suspicious.

“Is this some sort of test?” His eyes are barely more than slits, tooth crooked over his lip.

Is takes England a second to process the question. He shakes his head.

“No, you just look tired.” He takes a few steps until he's next to the other soldier, and shrugs. “And I can’t sleep anyways.”

Gerald’s expression falls just the slightest bit, suspicion slowly draining from his face. “Nightmares?”

England wanted to say that if he had nightmares for every war he'd been in, it’d be a full-time job. Instead, he just nods. “Among those lines.”

The boy looks like he wants to say more, but he leaves England be and returns to the barracks without another word.

There’s a sea full of stars spread out in from of him as he leans on the wall and stifles a yawn. He kicks a boot against the post holding up the wall and checks how many bullets he has in his gun (seven) before shoving it back into its hoist.

He shakes his head, blinks.

He couldn’t believe it. France- fucking hell, why did he even bother with that idiot. This whole event was a total PR disaster for everyone involved, France especially. Nevermind that he had to pick up the pieces. He couldn't fathom what type of insanity had gone into this decision.

But… he does remember France mentioning it, once. It was a dingy bar on the eve of the invasion of Berlin, both of them swallowing beer which France dubbed a crime against humanity.

“We’ll fall, England.” He’d said, the light cutting soft shadows over their watered down drinks. “ _Comme je t’ai dit dans 1815…_ You never listen.”

England had shaken his head, blinked the sleep from his eyes. “What?”

France just sighed. “I think we shall lose more than we expect, in this war.”

Then, England had just snorted. What on Earth did he even have _left_ to lose? But here he was, watching France grasp at colonies.

Was he to do the same thing?

He shook his head. He was tired but he couldn’t sleep. A million things to think of but all that was on his mind was France. Something was clearly wrong with him.

The paper in his pocket was crumpled from the events of earlier today; he sighed and sank against the post, digging his heels into the ground and flipping the crushed thing open to read the words.

The order first, then, the _Scripte Radio Londres._ He could barely make heads or tails of it. It didn't take long for him to give up, head pounding. He tried to focus, but sleeplessness and stress were not serving his intellect well. But it didn't matter, he could do it, he thought, ignoring his headache.

He had to focus on what was important. A mental checklist of repairing London, trying to pull his GDP up by the bootstraps, keep his empire from faltering, avoiding political missteps, make sure Germany didn’t go ahead and ruin everything for the third time this century, try to keep Russia and America from doing to Europe what they did to Japan… he sighed, pressing a palm to his forehead. The amount of things he had to worry about was seemingly innumerable.

And yet his brain kept coming back to what he’d heard two weeks past. He keeps hearing a whisper in his mind, like there’s something he’s missing and it’s absolutely _infuriating,_ he can’t seem to figure it out. Him. France. _Marriage._

He blinks. Right in front of him. There's something painfully obvious and he's _missing_ it, cannot fucking figure it out, the war’s meddled with his brain-

He drags a hand down his face. He needs to pay attention to the job at hand. Thinking will only distract him.

In the end, he does sleep. For a handful for seconds at a time, leaning against the post, but still. Enough to know that he keeps seeing things that aren’t real.

A flag that’s red white and blue and only partially his, for one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
>  _Va te faire foutre_ \- Go fuck yourself
> 
>  _Aussi_ \- Also, too
> 
>  _Baise d'un bâtard ingrat_ \- Fuck of an ungrateful bastard (bringing all the important parts of the French language directly to your doorstep, since 2018) 
> 
> _Perfide Albion_ \- Perfidious Albion. Old French insult for the English. 
> 
> _Comme je t'ai dit dans 1815…_ \- Like I told you in 1815...
> 
> -The Atlantic Charter: a treaty signed by the UK and US on August 14th, 1941. The treaty outlined principal goals and ambitions in the war, including that neither country would make any territorial gains from the war, and that all people were entitled to self-determination. 
> 
> -Rationing was harsh in Britain, during and after the war, to the point where even paper was scarce. By 1945, newspapers were only allowed 25% of their pre-war length.
> 
> -Radio Londres: the name of the broadcast by the BBC during World War 2, run by the French Resistance from its exiled base in London, that encouraged the French to keep fighting the Germans during the occupation.
> 
> -Levant Crisis: A Franco-British conflict that occurred in 1945, May 19th-July 19th. French attempts to suppress Syrian nationalism culminated in Charles De Gaulle sending three battalions of his men on warships to Damascus, which was then decimated by the French army. 
> 
> -This violated the Atlantic charter, prompting British intervention. The British had to mop the streets for French soldiers and bring them back to the barracks, sometimes at gunpoint. The conflict almost brought the two nations to war, and in fact, likely would have, had France been capable of waging war after the damage done to it during World War 2. 
> 
> -The Free French and English were in Syria in 1941 (June 8th- July 14th) as part of a campaign against Vichy France.
> 
> (If a note is written with an asterisk, then you can skip it and be perfectly fine. They're mostly to indulge my nerdery. If these feel unnecessary, tell me and I can get rid of them lol) 
> 
> *France references the upcoming Nuremberg trials, where many Nazi war criminals were put on trial.
> 
> *Throwing men at Germany; the general Allied strategy throughout World War 1. In fact, the general strategy of World War 1, point blank. 
> 
> *Franco Prussian War: England references the conflict. It was a war in 1871 that was both a great defeat for France and one of the final stepping stones towards the unification of Germany.
> 
> *Battle of Castillon: the last battle of the Hundred Years’ War, a decisive French victory that led Britain to lose almost all of its French holdings. 
> 
> *Guy Fawkes Day: A national holiday in England to today, celebrating in part the 1688 arrival of William of Orange, the Dutch King who basically took England from a backwards French satellite on the road to becoming an international power.
> 
> *The Seven Years’ War: A major European war from 1756-1763, which featured England and France on (you guessed it!) opposing sides. The war had huge ramifications globally, and is generally pinpointed as the war where France's dominance as a hegemonic global superpower began to fade, giving way to England's. 
> 
> *Aquitaine: a province in South West France.


	4. Resolute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England betrayed him. France doesn’t know why he didn’t see this coming.

June 1st, 1945

Damascus, Mandatory Syria

.

France hadn’t realised how long it had been since he and England fought, and it’s infuriating him. 

He has a hard time  _ believing  _ it, the sheer audacity England has to invade into his affairs like this, to meddle like it was the 1860s and he held the whole world in his damned hands, had France pinned by the collar of his cravat. 

Angleterre is going to  _ pay.  _ He swears it, a promise he’s made a million times over. England is not even enough of a man to hold France at gunpoint himself, no, he's off relishing somewhere, leaving France to rot in his misery. He is always, always perfidious. France keeps trusting him with tiny, insignificant things- he doesn’t know why he does, it always ends like this, with his heart crushed and bleeding in England’s heart while England looks on impassively. 

He tries to unclench his hands from where they’ve gone white-knuckled on his empty gun holster, instead fiddling with the loose seams of his coat (war always did make fashion suffer). Feeling tense as a live wire, he straightens his spine, stifling a yawn.

He swipes at his ruffled collar, frustratedly running through the events of the last day, doing his best to keep it to just that. When he thinks back any further- last week, last month, the last five years- it all just blurs into an endless panorama of bombs and paper stained with blood instead of ink, and his citizens being murdered in the street and England yelling at him and Germany taking another step just too close-

The familiar sound of a rifle being reloaded drags him from his stupor. Tilting his head, he sighs just audibly enough that the guard cracks a glare at him. France offers him a wide smile, which earns him a scornful huff. 

_ Shoot me,  _ he thinks at the guard, who’s glaring at him with narrowed eyes and a turned up nose.  _ I dare you.  _ He wonders if it would hurt, if he could even feel anything anymore. 

His thoughts drift to England, and the possibility immediately vanishes. He resists the urge to goad the guard aloud instead of just in his mind. The point all seems moot. 

There’s so much work to do that it all just fades out in his mind. He has an empire to manage, a country to repair, Germany to spit on, Russia to keep from Europe, a whole decades-long game of Russian roulette to play with America, and England… England is not helping matters. He shakes his head. He refuses to close his eyes.

He didn’t trust England for much, but he had thought that he would understand the part of wanting to put an empire back together. He thought at least, they had that in common. 

He supposed he was wrong. It was bound to happen every century or so. 

England did always choose everyone else over him. Apparently even if that meant abandoning his personal interests, too.

Nothing he could do about that, he thought, leaning back against the wall and staring up at the wooded-in ceiling, shaking his head at the thought that they’d forgotten to bomb this one. Syrians. Americans. Russians. Englishmen. He couldn't count how many people he had to keep off his back because of that damned war. 

They’d probably have to sign a ceasefire treaty tomorrow. He gets the strangest sense of déjà-vu, but the thought falls by the wayside with plans as to how to get the best deal for himself tomorrow. He’ll have to sign a treaty, and England will lend him no favour, but it was possible he could garner some advantage by infuriating him, which wouldn’t be hard...

He’d been such an idiot. Thinking of a war plan, and not even considering that it might be his worst enemy to take him down. 

France sighed and upped his count of ‘times wrong this century’ from one to two. 

.

June 2nd, 1945

Damascus, Mandatory Syria

.

France had the sudden, irresistible urge to incinerate all of the world’s paperwork in existence. The Atlantic Charter especially. 

He was sick of paperwork. He was sick of fighting. And he was  _ sick to death  _ of the people he always seemed to end up signing treaties with. 

He’s most thoroughly exhausted with surrendering. He’s going to eviscerate Germany, soon as he gets the chance. And then England, while he’s at it. 

England, who looks like a disaster wrapped up in everything France has ever hated. He sits across this table that’s barely more than the smithereens of a smashed barrel and propped up sheets of cardboard thin wood, his hair mussed and dark bags under his eyes, but he’s still sitting up straight, shoulders back and refusing to look away from France’s gaze. 

France has never hated anyone more. Even Germany. 

“France,” he says quietly, lips twisted downwards as he mutters something angry that France can’t quite make out. English had never been a priority for him. Never would be. 

“I want to make this quick, as I assume you’re just as bloody fucking tired as I am.”  _ Gunshots kept me awake all night,  _ and _ I haven’t had a night’s worth of proper sleep since the Great War.  _

“Just sign here, and we’ll ship your boys out. The Syrians will lay off for a bit, and you lot can go back to France and start putting things back together there.” 

France glares at him, licks his lips because they’re dry. 

“-Or not.” England adds at his look, dragging a hand over his face. “You can let Paris stay a bombed out shell for all the shits I give. Just sign the damned thing so we don’t have to see each other for at least another month or so.” 

France can appreciate that sentiment. What he cannot appreciate is the gnawing pit of bile in the back of his throat at the thought of what he’ll have to do to get to said settlement. 

“You want me to surrender my men from the area?” 

“You don’t have much of a choice. I don’t know if you've noticed, but Syrians weren’t exactly throwing fireworks to celebrate your arrival.” 

_ Enfoiré.  _ “You think I’d give up my colonies just because they had a day where they decided against being fond of me?” And this is England, so France knows he’ll see the real meaning of his words, the coded message;  _ You think I’d do anything you told me to?  _

England fails to get angry, which in turn infuriates France. 

“France, I have spent the last five years fighting a  _ war.  _ Between bombings, air, land and naval battles, and not to mention nearly starving, I’ve been on approximately seven million diplomatic missions, and to top it off I didn’t sleep last night. Forgive me if I don’t have any time for your games.” 

His tone is what convinces France, not his words. He sounds like a man who’s gone through Hell, and who’s come back with red rimmed eyes and a vital piece of him taken out and shoved back in wrong. 

“So, if you would do me the favour of signing the bloody paper and leaving for g- as long a physically possible, that would be wonderful.” 

“Someone’s in a good mood today.” He thinks the corner of England’s lip twitches up, but he hasn’t slept for days; he could be seeing things. 

“Yes.  _ you. _ ”  _ Lies.  _ “So stop rubbing it in my face and let me get some damned sleep.”

France tilts his head, hangs his pen above the cheap paper. He contemplates not signing the treaty, breaking anything he and England might have into a million fragments.

He thinks about it, and lets his pen drops to the paper. 

He signs it as  _ Francis L. Bonnefoy,  _ his signature illegible. He stands up fast enough to shake the table.

Looking at this man across the table, tired and wrecked but still going, throwing himself into his work like it’s the only thing keeping himself alive, he thinks he might feel something like sorrow. England has scars wrung over his knuckles and bruises covering his arms, but the look in his eyes is piercing as always, ever since France had found a rebellious little boy just a bit younger than him in the eleventh century, picked him up by the shirt, stared him in the eye and told him ‘You’re  _ mine. _ ’ How he wonders where those two boys went. 

“You’re a coward.” He says as he leaves, because that’s the only thing he can think to say, because he has enough hate to kill a country and the only one who will listen- who will  _ talk back,  _ not leave him a radio show covered in static- is England. Maybe because he misses the particular glint in England eyes when they’d fought in centuries past, the type of anger that was for him and him only. Maybe because seeing England as lost as he is is killing him, just a little. 

Everything in England’s posture changes as he snaps to attention, his gaze locking on France. His lips curl into a snarl, and something hot and burning thrums though France’s veins. 

He crosses the floor to France in three long strides, reaching to grab France by the collar and glare up at him. 

“France.” His voice is low like murder. “I am many things, but a coward is not one of them.”

France’s mind inadvertently comes up with a list of things England is:  _ enemy, ally, admirer, subject, the one always beyond my reach, enemy- _

England is still talking. “I don’t care what else you think, but I. Am. Not. A.  _ Coward. _ ” And he’s all up in France’s space now, walking the way he did when he ruled the world and talking like he still does. 

France bites down on his lip. He talks with the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Ah yes,  _ perfide Angleterre,  _ do tell me who it was that repeatedly appealed to Germany for peace, when he was building an army on  _ my  _ borders? Who meddled and fluctuated where I stood strong? Whose will faltered when my hours were their darkest?” He felt his eyes narrow, his lips curl up into a sneer. “And tell me, who is it here that will do whatever America pleases without him even asking, when it so obviously doesn’t benefit you?” 

England’s hand is still tangled in his coat, so France immediately feels a hard shove in his chest. The force of it nearly knocks him into the wall. Levelling his gaze with England’s, he pulls himself back to his full height, a half centimetre higher than England. Leaning forward, he tips on the edge of his toes and lays a hand on England’s shoulder, relishing as England seethes. 

England shudders, swatting his hand off with a blank expression. “I don’t know what you mean.” But his eyes give him away. 

France gnashes at the inside of his cheek. “You think I’ll be the only one who loses in this, England, don’t you. This is another war- and not just  _ our  _ war, for once. America’s and Russia’s and the rest of them. It’s a war where we- we play different roles. If you want to play auxiliary to America, fine. But leave me out of it. You’ve fought enough wars to remember who always loses?” And it’s not a question, because both he and England know what it is.

“The people in the middle.” England says softly, before looking up to meet France’s eyes. “France, it’s not  _ like  _ that. And you know it. Stop fearmongering. And to think that I ever considered ma-” his eyes go wide before he continues, like he’d just thought something so horrifying he couldn’t even talk. “And  _ America,  _ God, France. As if I would- you should know I don’t kowtow.” His gaze doesn’t falter, but France can  _ see  _ his hands shaking. 

France tilts his head, dropping his voice. “I know it better than anyone, Britannia.” And he knows from the way England’s face goes completely blank that he’s hit a nerve. England never did know how to make anger elegant. He can still remember, a small boy bowing at his feet with gritted teeth, trying to pretend he knew how to yield. 

“And are those not the exact words of a coward? The problem faces you with a gun to your head, England. You know it as well as I do. Yet you do nothing- aside from insulting me, of course. What else could be expected from you?” He had intended the words to be calm and even, but they came out bitter and harsh, angry. 

He spins on his heel and walks out, not bothering to mention the other thoughts that spring to mind with his words, the  _ looks  _ he had seen America give England during the war-

England talks. 

“And how do you propose we fix it?” 

His voice is so low France barely hears it.

France’s eyes go wide, and he’s so shocked he actually turns to see England looking at him- genuinely. Like he actually wants to hear an answer. France thinks first that he hasn’t seen that expression in centuries, but then he realises  _ never before has England looked at him like that- _

France feels his jaw is slightly ajar, and talking requires a palpable effort. His words come out as a rasp.

“I-”

“-I don’t know.” He forces his eyes up, but can’t quite meet England’s gaze. “That’s the problem, Angleterre.” 

_ What is he  _ doing? The question hits him with all the force of a gunshot. He should stop. He  _ has to  _ stop, the way England is looking at him is jarring his whole worldview out of place. 

He doesn’t look back as he walks out. 

He thinks that Germany must have killed a vital part of him, a vital piece that kept him from confessing his worst doubts to the most prominent nuisance in his entire history, the vital piece that kept him alive. 

Because he keeps thinking that if nothing else, England came through on his word, walked the walk where America and Russia stood by instead of coming themselves to police him for his violation of that oh-so-precious treaty that he didn’t even  _ sign.  _

Somehow, he’d happened upon the thought that he found England  _ brave.  _

The thought tasted bitter like defeat in his throat. It made him want to knock Germany’s teeth out, and then England’s, and then his own, and then walk away and never think anything so revolting as  _ England is brave  _ again in his life. 

A stray paper catches his eyes as it flutters in a rush of dustied air. France blinks. He could swear he recognizes that paper, the old angles it’s folded at, the refined printing of its script. 

He scoops down and picks it up. He’s more than surprised when it’s in his language. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes  
> -Same general dates as last chapter. The French signed a treaty with the English saying that they would exit the region on June 2nd 1945, although the French stayed in the region for more than a year, and the English left before them (despite de Gaulle’s fears that they were goading the French into signing a treaty in order to give themselves a larger military presence there.)


	5. Parfois un menteur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ends with a whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: "Sometimes a liar"

June 2nd, 1945

Damascus, Mandatory Syria

.

England swallows down his anger and pulls himself up, blinking France’s name out of his mind best he can. It takes him a few minutes to calm down and keep himself from thrashing the makeshift table and perhaps a wall or two, but he does it. He does it.

He sweeps the treaty up in his hand, the ink still wet. Then, in spite of his pounding head and thrumming heart, he forces himself to calm down, shoving his hands into his pockets and schooling his expression. He walks out the door without looking back. 

_ “You’re a coward.”  _ France’s voice whispers in the back of his mind. He grimaces and promptly pushes all thoughts of France aside. 

Fuck France. Really. 

He marches back to his part of the camp, lips a thin line. He doesn’t need to take that shit from anyone, especially someone who has a good portion of his army at gunpoint by way of England’s. 

_ England _ isn’t the one who threw up his arms and surrendered to Germany at the slightest sign of trouble. He isn’t the one who stops and smells the fucking roses, he isn’t the one who backs away, the one who leaves without a bloody word in the middle of the-

This is stupid. This is so, so stupid. He needs to stop thinking about France so much or it’s going to be the end of him. He frowns, snapping his fingers in front of his eyes and shaking his head, indulging in perhaps more bruxism than necessary. He continues back to the camp without so much as another thought in France’s direction.

The camp looks like a bomb hit it, and for a second England worries that one actually did. The disorganization turns out to be nothing more than human vice, though, which leaves him more peeved than relieved. His cot suffers from similar anarchy, sheets tossed about haphazardly with no regard for order in the stacks of yellow paged books or the radio antenna peeking out from a tossed laundry bag serving as a pillow.

There’s a faint ringing in the back of his ears, and he’s wondering if that’s the tinnitus finally setting in or if he’s just going crazy. He dismisses it, instead electing to fall face first atop his cot and shove his face into his makeshift pillow, not really wanting to get up. Let someone else solve the fucking problems and fight the damn wars and do the bloody diplomacy for once. He could drink tea and eat biscuits and read poetry for a while by the seaside. That would be just lovely…

_ Buzz. _

He glared vaguely in the direction of the noise. “Shut up,” he mumbled into the sheets. 

It didn’t, and eventually he was forced to blindly grope at the bedsprings until his hand caught on the radio and he could shove it blearily at his mouth. “‘Ello?” He said, not really feeling like opening his eyes or placating whoever thought to call him or moving in general. 

“England?” Who the fuck was this? Someone annoying- god, that could be anyone. France? No, less of a stupid accent. That idiotic French politician that he  _ still  _ couldn’t recall? 

“Ye?” He mumbled into the receiver. 

“Are you drunk? Already? Wait, what time is it there?” Shuffling noises intercut with static. Wait, he knew that voice. America. 

Of course. Who else. 

“-The fuck do you  _ want? _ ” 

“-Eight in the morning. Fuck, England,  _ I  _ have more right to be drunk than you.”

“‘M not drunk. Just don’t want to talk to you. Perfectly normal behaviour.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been awake for forty eight hours straight-”

“Try ninety six you novice-”

“Oh no wonder you’re in such a bitchy mood today, that makes sense-”

“Fuck you. I had to deal with France today, you’d be pissed too if you had to talk to that bloody-”

“-no England, I wouldn’t, because I don’t hate everyone around me-”

“-Fuck off.”

“I can’t, I’m across the Atlantic.”

“Try harder.” 

There’s a coughing sound from the other end of the line and what sounds like a sigh. “Goddammit,” he’s pretty sure he hears. “I’m just trying to call you to talk business. Can we do that, England? For three seconds?”

“Business is personal for us,” England says. He hears America sigh. 

“Yeah, well, bring your personal issues to Potsdam, ‘cause you and me have a meeting with Crazy Commie to discuss what we’re gonna do with Fuckwad Fascist.” 

“You know, ‘Fuckwad Freedom Fighter’ has a really nice ring to it? Triple alliteration. Almost poetic, really.”

“What the hell are you on,” America says. England wonders whether he’s unimpressed or upset with England's poetic genius. 

England doesn’t say anything in response. “If this is so important, then why the hell is it  _ you  _ calling? Is my boss dead or just stupid enough to talk to you?” Fuck, fuck, why did he say that, America wasn't supposed to  _ know- _

There’s a dead ring of silence. When he finally talks, America’s voice sounds scratchy. “Yes, actually, believe me, I don’t call you because I  _ enjoy  _ it. I, actually- I just needed to talk to you about. Y’know. What we said earlier.”

“America, if you could use your  _ words  _ to explain your  _ thoughts  _ to me, I don’t think we can get an etch-a-sketch across the Atlantic that fast-”

“Unthinkable, England, okay! I’m talking about Unthinkable!”

Oh. 

_ That.  _

He remembers that. 

_ America’s uniform is still slick with sweat when he walks in, and he smells like the fields and gunpowder and sweat and the devil- which is to say, awful. His shoulders droop as soon as he catches sight of England.  _

_ “Goddamn. I was really hoping not to see you.” He said, tossing his cap on the table and pulling out a chair, tossing his heels on the table and staring disheartenedly at the papers. England didn’t even bother to scold him for impropriety: wasn’t like the boy ever listened.  _

_“Sentiment returned,” England said. He’d seen more than enough of America in the past few years-_ _the boy was strong as all hell, but God, he became more and more of a nuisance the more time one spent around him. When they saw each other, they always seemed to be delivering bad news. (Though he could still recall the few times America had greeted him with a bright grin and practically crushed him in a hug, saying stupid things like, ‘we beat them, England, we did it’ and ‘this’ll all be over soon, I swear to you.’ They were crystal clear in his memory, but England didn’t like to think about them much.)_

_ He pulled out a chair, sitting down across from his former charge and skimming his finger along the wood until he came across a pen. He had to punch it to paper a few times until the ink worked. Neither one of them said anything.  _

_ He supposed that was his job, to start this jilted parody of a conversation. He was the one who’d insisted America be here, after all.  _

_ “There’s-” _

_ “I really don’t want to do this, England,” America said. When he looked up, his eyes were hard. The last time England had seen that look, he’d been on the opposite side of a musket. “Haven’t we fought enough? Two world wars in one century, and we’re already angling for three? You guys tryin’ to hit a record or something? Because I don’t know about you, but all I really want is to go home and eat non rationed food in a bed that doesn’t have the consistency of cardboard.”  _

_ England’s teeth dug into his cheek. You’d think he was fifteen, the way he talked.  _

_ “America.” he began, in the most authoritative voice he could muster. “You know just as well as I that Russia poses an incredible danger not only to Europe, but the world. I don’t think I got through a single meeting in the whole of the war where you two didn’t exchange sharp words of some sort. Just- for the love of God, just fucking read it.” He shoved the papers towards America, having already read them over more times than he could count. _

_ America met and held his gaze, giving him a look that was every bit as stubborn as it’d been in 1773 when he’d pulled a knife on England at dinner and told him, once and finally, to fuck off. He looked as though he was seriously considering tearing the papers to shreds. It made England’s blood boil. The brat hadn’t been through a quarter of the things he had, and to think he was stupid enough to believe his enemies would give him an easy go of it- well, that was all well and good, but England had no plans of suffering for his ignorance.  _

_ But America picked up the paper, swung his heels off the table and looked it over. His hands were white knuckled, brow furrowed in concentration; he’d never like reading treaties, said the language was boring and just hiding bullshit. His lips moved as he read.  _

_ It took what felt like years, but finally America looked up. His lips were parted a bit, blinking as though taken aback. “England... “ His eye twitched, then his lips, as if he wanted to reflexively give a big smile even though the situation was completely wrong.  _

_ “...This is crazy. We can’t…. We can’t fucking invade Russia. We don’t have the manpower! Or the artillery!” _

_ “Yes, and if we wait, soon he’ll have more infantry divisions, armoured divisions, and tactical aircrafts too.” _

_ “But we still have the n-” _

_ “You really think he won’t find a way to replicate it soon enough? Admit it, America, Russia is obviously the biggest threat to you and I and Europe and the whole of the civilized world. If we don’t strike while the iron is hot, we’re sure to get burned.”  _

_ “This is insanity, England.”  _

_ “And so is waiting for him to attack us. You think I want to see Europe under Communism, America? Or is it just that you care so little you would rather wait and see your enemy win than risk yourself?” He paused, palms flat on the table as he leaned in conspiratorially, voice low. _

_ “Or is it that you’re emotionally compromised?” Because England knew all too well how one could mix up love and hate. He’d made that mistake once. _

_ But that was a long time ago.  _

_ America jerked back, as if he’d been slapped. He stood without warning, his chair hitting the wall, eyes wide as saucers. He covered the room in two long steps around the table, jaw set.  _

_ One of the things you learn about America if you spend enough time around him is that he’s strong as hell, but he telegraphs his moves. England sees the punch coming from miles away. He blocks easy, slides his palm down so he catches America by the wrist, and locks his gaze.  _

_ “Is that it, America. Is that it.” He tilts his head, sure his smile is all teeth. “Don’t lie to me.” _

_ “No,” America says, eyes burning. “Don’t you fucking lie to  _ me,  _ you- you- Goddammit, England, I’m not some paramilitary force you can just jerk around on puppet strings when you need help! Just because you’re- because you’re a paranoid freak doesn’t mean I have to play along with your games! I don’t  _ want  _ to invade Russia, we don’t  _ need  _ to invade Russia, and for fuck’s sake I’m not- I’m not  _ you _ , I don’t fuck my enemies out of some sick- why the hell are we even bothering with this! I’m sick of war, England, and I thought you might be too, after doing this twice in thirty years! And on the home front, of all things!” He ripped his hand from England’s grip. England couldn’t stop him. America was stronger.  _

_ He looks breathless, cheeks red and breathing hard. He’s blinking and England wonders if those are tears in his eyes, because his voice is harsh and accusing as could be. “But no- you’re just a crazy warmonger, aren’t you! And you play games with people’s heads because it’s all you know how to do, and you’re paranoid and manipulative, and, and you haven’t changed one damn bit! And here I was-” He looked at England like he’d lost something, then shook his head.  _

_ “-Never mind. Keep your plans. Just don't expect me to play along with your games. I’m not a kid, England. You don’t get to treat me like one. You don’t fool me anymore.” _

_ He walked out the door without so much as a glance. England had no intention of chasing him.  _

_ He had been right, after all.  _

“I remember that.” He says, voice perfectly even. “What does it have to do with anything?” After being around for more than a few centuries, one would think he’d have a better grip on his emotions that this. It didn’t show on him physically, of course- his expression was perfectly neutral, posture relaxed- but still he felt a curl of anger in his chest at the memory, at America for bringing it up. 

It was ridiculous, he told himself, and smiled into the receiver. America coughed, static breaking up his voice as he talked. 

“Well, uh. You really think R- he would do that? The thing you proposed? The thing we were supposed to be preparing for?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t believe it, America.” Although it had been his boss that suggested it. But he didn’t disagree. 

“Yeah. Uh. Right. Well. How likely do you think that is?”

_ How likely is it that Russia will establish a sphere of influence over Europe, of which he’ll eventually use to create a base for Communism to spread of the world? I don’t know, do you believe the sun is warm? The sky blue? Yourself an optimist?  _

He doesn't say any of that. Instead, he asks, voice clipped; “Why do you ask?”

There’s another pause, and this time England just overhears the detestable sound of paper shuffling. “Just wondering,” America says, and his tone is casual enough to pass off for just about anyone, anyone who hadn’t spent the last three years watching him scream and bitch and plan and celebrate and stress on just about any occasion casual diplomacy could manage. 

_ Goddamnit, America.  _ England cursed to himself, trying to organize his cot but only ending up tossing his already lamentably disorganised sheets to the rotted wood flooring, taking down an ancient copy of  _ Great Expectations  _ with it. 

He shook his head. Potsdam, right. “When do I need to be there by?” So many messes to clean up, he was starting to lose track. 

“Starts tomorrow.” America says. England looks out over the ruins of Damascus and resists a sigh. “And you couldn’t have told me this any  _ earlier? _ ” He tries and fails to keep annoyance form bleeding into his tone. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault you boss didn’t tell you!”

“Yes, and you’re not the one who has to do a nationwide cleanup from bombing…” He mumbles to himself. “And I still have to tie up the loose ends with France’s surrender….” He hears some faint noise from the other end of the line, something like ‘What, France surrendered?  _ Again?  _ To wh-’ But he doesn’t really hear it. 

“...And get back to you by the seventeenth.” 

“Yeah.” America sounded like he hadn’t caught most of that and didn’t care. “Sure. See you. Don’t die on your way, and get there early so Russia doesn't take the best seats.”

He hangs up. England looks out over Damascus. It’s completely ruined, and he has no time to pick up the pieces, nor ensure the frog is finally out of it. His eye twitches, curling a hand lazily in the tumbled sheets. He thinks it’d be nice to just sit here, a moment further. 

But the sun is bright in the dawn sky and he has business to attend to. He curses Germany's name, then America’s, then Russia’s, then France’s for good measure, and pushes to his feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes
> 
> -Etch-a-sketch wasn't actually invented until 1960. Suspend your belief for me, okay? 
> 
> -The Potsdam conference took place from July 17th to August 2nd in 1945. It was a meeting in the German city of Potsdam where the main forces of the Allied cause (the US, USSR, and UK) decided the fate and division of Austria and Germany, as well as land rearrangements for Poland. More on that later. 
> 
> -Operation Unthinkable was a plan proposed by Winston Churchill for an Allied Force attack on the Soviet Union. Already seeing the rising tension between the West and the USSR, Churchill ordered a plan so that the Allies could 'impose [their]  
> will' on the Soviets. The plan assumed support from Poland, the US, the UK and (surprisingly) German forces. It was not given high odds of success, seeing as how in many ways (notably manpower) the Western Allies were already grandly outnumbered, but there was fear that if left alone the balance of power would become even more unfavourable to the Soviet's advantage. The plan was supposed to be implemented by July 1st, by was dismissed on the grounds of being 'fanciful'.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! So this is the whole chaptered Fruk thing I've been rambling about for nothing short of forever.... hahaha. Anyways, this is going to be going down an alternate history where a Franco-British Union actually _did_ go through (although I'm not specifying when/which one _juuuust_ yet). It's going to span about half a century, so the 24 chapters is just an estimation, likely a very, very low one, considering. I can't promise regular updates, but I hope you guys like it all the same! 
> 
> As always, any sort of feedback is hugely appreciated!


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